


the heart that you call home

by velleities



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/pseuds/velleities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bucky,” he said. “What happened tonight? Where were you? Why were you in an ambulance?”<br/>“’S long story, Stevie.”<br/>Steve leaned back against the coffee table obnoxiously. I’ve got time, his eyes challenged. I’ve got all the time in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heart that you call home

**Author's Note:**

> a million thanks to the amazing [curiositykilled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/works/) for the beta-reading, without whom this fic would be a total mess
> 
> title's graciously/shamelessly borrowed by the decemberists' "the engine driver"

    

   It started with a siren.

  He didn’t give it a second thought, not really. This was the city after all, ambulances howled all day and all night. But then there was the wind, this sudden, strong, unnerving kind of wind; realistically it should have meant nothing, but something like that in the middle of the night created a certain kind of atmosphere.

  And then the dogs had started yowling, crying. This, too, should have meant nothing. Instead, it just amplified Steve’s gut feeling that something was very, very off.

  He paused on his tracks and listened. Tires screeched; the sound of a crash split the air, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. He didn’t know if it was that loud, or that close or if his super hearing was working miracles again, but it was the stuttering of the ambulance siren that propelled him into action. He ran towards the sound and as the siren died completely, he spotted the overturned vehicle, the broken back doors, the smashed bushes, the nurses trying to defend themselves - and the man.

  His face, the unmistakable face of- ( _Bucky?_ ), was bloody and dirty and wild but still familiar. He knocked the male nurse out, and Steve saw him stand back, panicked. It was that look of panic that stopped Steve in his tracks, a statue hidden in the shadows of the trees, watching the scene unfold before his eyes.

  The man clutched at his long, disheveled hair. Steve saw him notice the other nurse, a petite blonde no older than twenty, cowering against a bush, crying in silent terror.

   “No,” the man muttered, and then more frantically, “No, no, no. No, God, no.”

 He crouched in front of her, metal and flesh arms reaching to touch, but she hunched in further on herself. He pulled back and stared at her wordlessly, his mouth open in fear.

 Steve watched the man ( _Bucky, what the hell?_ Bucky _)_ scramble to his feet, as if suddenly remembering something, and run to the overturned ambulance. He pried the driver’s door open, drug out an unconscious man with a severe head wound and laid him gingerly on the gravel. Steve stilled his breath as he watched Bucky desperately search for a pulse. Finally, Bucky’s shoulders sagged with relief, a sign that the man was still alive, and Steve puffed out a fretful breath, wiping his mouth nervously.

  “Fuck,” Bucky whispered, and then louder, “ _Fuck_.”

 He passed his hand over his face, smearing even more blood over his skin _(and where_ was _all that blood coming from- it couldn’t be_ all _theirs-)_. He got up, staggering, and urged the young nurse, in a raspy, shaky voice, “Call someone, they’re alive.”

 She didn’t move; instead, she started sobbing, out of control, and Bucky ran a silver hand through his hair, scared, helpless. Steve watched him hurry to the girl, crouch before her at a safe distance.

 “I’m sorry, I didn’t- please, _please_ call someone,” he said.

 Then he stood up jerkily, took a sweeping look around him, and took off running.

 And Steve ran after him.

 He was damn fast, but Bucky ( _Bucky?)_ had a head start. Every few minutes he would slow down and check his surroundings, and Steve would mirror his pace. He remained unspotted, and Steve wondered at his own spying skills if the prized Fist of Hydra really wasn’t able to detect him; then again maybe the former Winter Soldier didn’t have super hearing and super sight like Steve did, or maybe he was just too panicked to notice him.

 After about half an hour of weaving and turning and weaving again through darkened, silent streets, they turned to a neighborhood of houses that should rightfully belong to porcelain dolls. They were all proper and pristine, each at a considerable distance from the other. Steve followed Bucky to the very end of the street, where the houses ended and where a long stretch of road without streetlights led to a dark, abandoned-looking house with two front steps and no lawn.

 Steve realized there was nowhere to hide in that empty stretch of road, and for the first time in this insane night, he wished he had his shield with him. He had no idea what he was getting into.

 But it was _Bucky_. Bucky was here. It had been six months of nothing since that day on the helicarrier- since _Bucky had saved him_ after the fall off the helicarrier. It had been six months of trying to get a lead, trying to locate the Winter Soldier or Bucky or whoever he was now, trying to help, trying to find answers. Six months of failing to do anything of use, because there had been no damn leads.

 Steve itched to run up to him, to grab his shoulder, spin him around and hug him and punch him in his familiar, bloody face and then hug him again. He was acutely aware that if he attempted something of the sort, the only one getting punched would be himself, and by a metal hand no less, so he just kept walking; he would keep walking until Bucky noticed him or until he went in the house and then, and then - and then what?

  Steve would just ring the bell? Should he gather some flowers maybe, bring them as a gift? _Sunflowers, preferably_ \- Steve shook his head, shooing away the thought.

 About ten paces before they reached the darkened house, Steve saw Bucky’s shoulders tense as he stopped and pried a knife loose from… somewhere ( _where_ had he had _that knife…?_ ). The only thing Steve had to counter the knife with was his cell phone – honestly, just his cell phone, what was he going to do with his cell phone? Use it as a shield? Call for backup before the Winter Soldier took him down?

 Bucky turned around to face him, feet planted firmly on the ground, hands ready to attack or defend, a ferocious look on his wary face. Steve held out his hands in a gesture of peace, or surrender, though he knew his face spoke of something like pleading.

 Bucky jerked his head back, startled, and squinted as if to make sure what he thought he was seeing was, in fact, real. His mouth opened just a crack, but he didn’t seem inclined to say anything. The hand holding the knife wavered; Bucky looked uncertain whether he should lower it, whether Steve was a threat. Steve’s chest hurt at the thought, and he had to work to make his voice even.

 “It’s just me. No one’s following,” he said.

 Bucky let out a long-held silent breath, lowered the knife, twirled it once and turned his back to Steve, walking with brisk steps towards the house. Steve lingered for a second, then followed - slowly, cautiously, but followed all the same. Bucky stopped at the narrow, wooden front steps, dug for his keys in a pocket, fumbled with the lock, spat out a curse, and eventually managed to open the door. He turned his head to Steve, a questioning look on his face. _Are you coming in or what?_ he seemed to ask.

 Steve hesitated, still, and when Bucky, already halfway in the door, turned around to find him hovering two steps away, Bucky tightened his lips in a thin line, ran a hand through his knotted hair.

 “It’s- it’s me, Steve. It’s. It’s me,” Bucky said, stumbling on the words.

 Steve felt a wave of relief wash through his body, and when Bucky disappeared into the dark house, Steve took the two steps in one stride. He crept through the front door, closing it noiselessly behind him. His eyes roamed around the small house; the dark curtains suffocated the faint glow of streetlights outside; the few pieces of furniture crowded into the small space - a couch, a tall coffee table, a stumpy end table with a lamp on it - looked dusty and old; the dirty green carpet had seen better days, and the crumpled snack wrappers stacked in a corner with empty water bottles and soda cans did nothing to improve the situation. The duffel bag slouched next to the couch seemed to be the only relatively clean and recently used thing in the room.

 A lamp turned on to his right, announced more by the click of the switch than its murky light. Steve turned to see Bucky standing in the space that Steve supposed was the kitchen. He wasn’t sure the short fridge and the microwave atop the dirty counter counted outside of hotel rooms.

 As Steve watched, Bucky pulled his hair up into a bun at the nape of his neck.

 Bucky turned and looked at Steve. His eyes went softer then, his lips relaxing. Steve wanted to hug him and never let go; wanted to scream at him all the obscenities in his storehouse; wanted to ask him questions, ask him if he remembered, how much he remembered, beg him to remember, and tell him he missed him, God, how he had missed him - but how could he? What could he say after six months and three years and seventy years of - of… of this?

 “You look like hell. Are you hurt?” he blurted out, instead.

 Bucky winced and touched his face with his flesh hand. There was still blood crusted all over it.

  “Steve,” he said softly, looking remorseful.

 Bucky went up a small step into a narrow room on his left, turning on another lamp. From where he stood, Steve could see a chipped sink and a narrow shower with a stained floor. A lone bulb burned in the ceiling, painting everything with a sickly yellow light. Bucky grabbed a small pale green towel, ran it under the sink and started scrubbing his face roughly.

 Steve leaned against the door, hands in his pockets, and studied the person before him. He was somewhat thinner than the Winter Soldier had been, but maybe that was the lack of combat clothes. Dressed like he was now, in black jeans, a white shirt and a denim jacket, he could easily pass for just another civilian if one could ignore the bloody stains on the white of his shirt. He was tense, but smooth and precise in his movements; young, but with haunted, exhausted eyes. His hair was filthy, and -

 “Settling on the long hair, I see,” Steve said, making a feeble attempt to ease them into some kind of conversation.

 Bucky snorted but didn’t respond. He ran the towel under water again and worked on removing the blood, leaving his face mostly clean, aside from the cuts here and there. He threw the towel carelessly in the tiny sink, washed his hands, wiped them on his shirt, turned off the lamp and walked to the area that in Steve’s mind stood for the living room, on account of that one lonely couch.

 Bucky, his back turned to Steve, stopped short, swore under his breath and started rummaging in the duffel bag for something clean to wear. Steve watched him, words caught in his throat, all the things they never said to each other, the conversations they never had, so many things lost and found again in those seventy years, in those three years, in those six months.

 Bucky found what he’d been looking for, apparently a black shirt. He peeled off his jacket with hurried movements and removed his stained shirt.

 Steve raised his eyebrows, alarmed; Bucky’s left side was a canvas of purple and yellow bruises.

 Tensing, he asked, “Does it hurt? Do you need anything?”

 Bucky flinched and, grabbing the black shirt, he mumbled, “’M fine, Steve.”

 “I’m looking right at you,” Steve said drily, taking a step closer to Bucky.

 Bucky looked at the bruises as he pulled the black shirt over them.

 “It’s fine” – he gave a feeble shrug – “I heal quickly, Steve, like you.”

 Then he turned around slowly, a tight, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he looked at Steve and folded the dirty, white shirt.

 “Steve. I keep saying your name, sorry,” he said, tossing the folded shirt on the floor, next to the duffel bag; surprisingly, it remained folded. “It just - it makes you more real.”

 Something tugged at Steve’s chest. “I’m real. Definitely real,” he confirmed.

 Bucky chewed on his lower lip hesitantly. Steve wanted to ask, _Where the hell have you been?_ _Why couldn’t I find you?_

 “What happened?” he asked, instead.

 Bucky stopped with the chewing and just bit on his lip, staring at Steve. “How did you find me?”

 Steve let out a humorless laugh. “Completely by chance, I guarantee you,” he said. “But I saw you with the nurses and the ambulance.”

 Bucky nodded, resting his right hand on his waist. He stared vaguely at a corner as if thinking, then nodded again. He turned to Steve and said, “The lamps are awful, I know, but we’re kind of on the down low here.”

 Steve felt impatience and frustration bubble up inside him; he shoved it down. “What happened?” he pressed.

 Bucky didn’t look inclined to answer, carefully avoiding Steve’s eyes. Steve considered him. _Clearly_ the Bucky that was standing before him was capable of coherent thought and speech, nothing like the wild animal that he’d been last time they’d met; this deliberation was very much on purpose, and Steve felt irked.

 He’d never ran away from confrontation in his life, though, had never given up on anything, and he wasn’t about to start now; he dropped down to the floor, making himself comfortable. He waited pointedly, glaring daggers at Bucky, who looked quite lost and helpless under the scrutiny and conviction of Steve’s gaze. It should have been funny, really: the terror that used to be the Winter Soldier squirming under a look from defenseless Steve Rogers, but Steve was too miffed to appreciate it.

 Eventually, Bucky ran a hand over his hair and sat down on the floor. “It was an accident.”

_What are you doing here? What is this place? What kind of accident? Why were you in an ambulance?_

 “Oh?” Steve said with all the nonchalance he could muster.

 “I- I woke up and I didn’t know where I was, and I- I lashed out, I wasn’t thinking,” Bucky said in a strained voice. “I should’ve- I…” He took a shuddering breath, gathering himself. “It was an accident.”

 Steve found the opening he needed and said, “Why were you in an ambulance?”

 Bucky exhaled again, clearly not wanting to have this discussion. Suddenly, he looked up, alarmed.

 “I- the knife’s in the kitchen. Everything, it’s all in the kitchen. And there’s some there” – he gestured vaguely towards the duffel bag – “but it’s for protection, I’m not” – he took a short breath - “I’m not going to hurt you. I- I know who you are. Steve.”

 He visibly relaxed as he repeated the name.

 Steve’s mind flashed back to the fight on the helicarrier and he had to bite back a groan. He was tired, so tired, of Bucky’s terrified face replaying over and over in his mind. He tried to focus on the real Bucky, sitting in front of him, feet crossed, hands entwined.

 “So,” he said. “Bucky.”

 Bucky’s eyes were intense and bright in the dim light. “Yes,” he said steadily. “I mean, what’s left of him. Me. After - everything.”

 That was more than Steve had dared to expect _._ There had been no question in his mind that the Bucky surviving the Winter Soldier would be a different Bucky than the one of seventy years, of three years, ago. Steve was different too, changed, from the moment he’d woken up into this century. From the moment he’d crashed on that ice, really. All that should matter now was that Bucky was once again in control.

 “How much do you remember?”

 “A lot,” Bucky said. “I think? I don’t have any measure of comparison, but I think- I think a lot. I… I have a timeline.”

 When Steve was sure Bucky wasn’t about to elaborate, preferring to pick at the carpet instead, he moved on.

 “Bucky,” he said, drawing his attention. “What happened tonight? Where were you? Why were you in an ambulance?”

 Bucky chewed on his lower lip. After a few seconds’ contemplation, he said, “’S long story, Stevie.”

 Steve, deliberately and without taking his eyes off Bucky’s, leaned back against the coffee table obnoxiously. _I’ve got time_ , his eyes challenged. _I’ve got all the fucking time in the world._

 Bucky seemed to remember that look at least, because he anxiously clenched and unclenched his flesh hand over his thigh and exhaled audibly through his nose.

 “I- someone- someone from Hydra found me and I- there are- he’s-” He stopped himself, trying to organize his thoughts, his brow furrowed in frustration.

 Steve felt gracious enough to help out. “How long you been here?”

 Bucky looked up at the question. “Just three days.”

 “And what happened tonight?”

 Bucky didn’t respond, and Steve couldn’t understand _why_ \- if he was scared, or didn’t remember, or was ashamed, or what the hell. But he deserved to know, he _needed_ to know- he snapped.   

 “I haven’t seen you in _six_ months, I’ve been searching for you everywhere, there’s been no damn lead. Last time I saw you, you were a Hydra weapon who didn’t know your own name, much less mine, and yet you saved me, and,” his voice rose in pitch, but he didn’t notice, “ _then you left_. Freakin’ disappeared, and I _worried_ about you, and I couldn’t _find_ you, and now, six months after, you tell me you’re Bucky and that you won’t hurt me and _yet_ I find you with bruises and blood all over you, and with two unconscious people that _you_ have beat up, so, _James Buchanan Barnes, tell me what the fuck happened tonight or so help me God_.”

 He had not realized he had been leaning forward nor that he’d been gesticulating with a tense hand. He only now registered the look on Bucky’s face - he looked like he might simultaneously cry, laugh, throw up, and run away. Steve leaned back and tried to relax his features, waiting to gauge Bucky’s reaction.

 Bucky let out a loud and shuddery breath. “I’d been mostly safe from Hydra so far. Some- some run-ins here and there in-in- here, at first, before I left, and then much later in- in Finland.”

 “Finland,” Steve repeated flatly, mentally picturing himself lunging at Bucky, because _Finland?_ That was practically another continent. He tightened his hand over his knee.

 “Yeah, but nothing that mattered,” Bucky said dismissively. “But- tonight.”

 Steve could see that it was difficult for him to find the words, say them out loud- maybe that would make them more real, like repeating Steve’s name made Steve more real - but Steve didn’t care. He was gracious, but not _that_ gracious. Not now, and not with Bucky.

 “I- there’s, I,” Bucky stammered. “There’s-  in Hydra’s programming. There were some trigger words, I was- they conditioned me to respond to them in case- for when I wasn’t- compliant” – he forced the words through gritted teeth, looking as if they caused him physical pain – “Safe words. For them. So that I’d be sure to obey. So that I’d- I’d shut down and they could wipe me and- and be done with it. With. The disobedience.”

 Steve’s anger was a living, palpable thing inside his chest. The only reason he wasn’t already punching holes through the walls, or running off into the night to find some Hydra bases and burn them to the ground was that he was certain it would freak Bucky out. So he did nothing, said nothing, and tried to take even, regular breaths and look collected.

 Bucky licked his dry lips. He looked pale, paler than he had at the beginning of the night, but he forced himself to speak.

 “I was - I was walking by the river. And I heard- I heard the first word. It’s sequences, sequences of words, and I heard the first one and I turned, and there was this man, a man, I knew him” – Bucky started talking in a rush now, as if in a hurry to get the words out and be done with it – “Three others were with him, Hydra guys, not much to speak of, I know how they fight, but- he said the word, and I- I lost it.”

 “I lost it, Steve,” he repeated, finally looking back at Steve, and Steve wished he hadn’t.

 Bucky’s eyes were glistening, and Steve wanted to hold him until he could make it all better.

 But Bucky went on.

 “I didn’t- I felt- I saw it in my head, they would wipe me again, and they’d make me kill again, and they’d make me kill- _you_ , your _friends_ , everyone, and I wouldn’t know, I’d have no choice, I wouldn’t remember, and I- I’d rather die, Steve. I’d rather die than go through that again, than do these things again, I’m…” He picked at the carpet again. “I started screaming, so that I wouldn’t hear him over my own voice. The others came at me, we fought, and _he_ was trying to scream words at me, and I screamed over him and I attacked him, he dropped to the ground, and I’d hit him and then the guys would come at me and he’d start again and I- I - I was terrified, Steve.”

 Steve could see it, right in front of him: Bucky looked terrified just recounting the events, his eyes wide, his lips curled, an expression that by now had become too familiar for comfort. Bucky wiped a tear from the corner of his eye before it ran down, and Steve felt his heart physically ache as he stopped himself from reaching out. He couldn’t comfort Bucky, not now, or else he might stop talking, and Steve needed him to go on.

 “I got a gun, from the other guys,” Bucky went on. “I threatened him to stop, and he didn’t- and I was- I fought it, Steve” –  Bucky’s voice cracked –  “I should have gone still, a lot sooner, at the first- at the first word even, but I didn’t, I fought it so hard, I- my head hurt so much, Steve, it was like breaking in two, like it was exploding again.”

 Steve thought, with horror, _Again?_

 “But I- I didn’t go down,” Bucky continued, “but Steve, I was scared.” He gulped down a breath. “I knocked them down, all three of them,” he said. “But I couldn’t- I slumped down a tree, and I thought the other man was down, but he wasn’t, and he started speaking again and he shot me with a tranq gun.”

 Steve was really failing at this ‘try to be collected’ thing; he was shaking now, one hundred percent, out and out shaking and couldn’t control it. Bucky didn’t notice, or didn’t acknowledge it, or just couldn’t stop himself, and went on quietly.

 “And I shot him. I killed him” – he mimicked firing a gun at the carpet – “Right in the head. And then I went down. The tranquilizers...” Bucky took a few shuddering breaths, running his flesh fingers over his metal ones. He shrugged imperceptibly. “I don’t know why I was in an ambulance. I guess someone passed by and called for one. But when I woke up, I didn’t know where I was and I.”

 He paused to breath in, one - two - three deep breaths, trying to compose himself. Steve mimicked him.

 “I just saw this confined space, and the IV and people over me and I- I flipped, I lost it, I didn’t think, I thought Hydra had me” – he frowned – “I wrecked the thing.”

 When he was sure Bucky had finished, Steve said, “I saw the rest.”

 Bucky nodded, looking up at him. “I know I’ve done much worse things, but” – he shook his head, remorse written all over his face – “I don’t do that anymore, and. This was bad.”

 Steve stretched his leg to nudge Bucky’s knee with his foot, a threefold gesture, trying to comfort him, catch his attention, and test his touching tolerance at the same time. Bucky didn’t seem to mind, just looked up at Steve again.

 “It was _spectacular_ ,” Steve said earnestly and almost laughed out loud at Bucky’s outrageous expression.

  “ _What the hell_ , Steve?” Bucky blurted.

 “Well, not the knocking out the poor nurses, obviously,” Steve conceded. “But all the other parts. You stood up to them, you fought to get away.”

 “I killed a guy,” Bucky murmured darkly.

 “It was kill or be killed,” Steve pointed out.

 “Obviously,” Bucky agreed, looking at him as if he were an idiot – a look that Steve was very much familiar with and which warmed his heart. “But still, I don’t, I…” He trailed off remorsefully.

 They didn’t speak for a few moments, until Bucky broke the silence with a soft, “Why did you follow me?”

 Steve snorted. “Was there any chance that I wouldn’t?”

 Bucky pressed his lips and lowered his head, his eyes hidden behind long strands of hair, and Steve’s eyes widened in horror at the implication behind his words; his breath caught in his chest.

 “Bucky, I didn’t mean…”

 Bucky looked at him questioningly. Steve was caught in a wave of grief and nausea that made his chest and stomach feel heavy and his limbs feel like liquid.

 “I never stopped - I never forgave myself. There’s not much I can - there isn’t a way to apologize enough, but if it means anything, I never forgave myself.”

 Bucky looked positively confused and, as Steve noted, suspicious that Steve had been thinking of something really, _really_ stupid. His eyes had narrowed in _that_ way.

 “For what?” Bucky asked slowly.

 “For not jumping after you, on that train,” Steve said, ignoring Bucky’s disbelieving _‘What?’_ “For not coming to look for you, for not-”

 “ _I was dead!_ ” Bucky retorted. “I _should_ have been dead,” he amended, with less force.

 “I should have made sure,” Steve said. “I should have come for- for your body.”

 “Steve, what the hell?!” Bucky said vehemently, his face the very picture of outrage. “I mean, literally one of the first memories that came back was of you being an idiot, but I didn’t think-”

 He ran a hand over his hair, huffing a loud sigh.

 “What the hell, Steve, calm the fuck down with that savior complex you’ve got there,” he said, more calmly but with the same intensity. “I fell, and it wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t mine either, and I should have been dead, and a rescue mission for a dead person somewhere in the snow, somewhere in the mountains, _somewhere along the path of a fast-moving train_ , when there was a fucking war to be fought, when literally everyone counted on Captain fucking America- that would have been idiotic, Steve. And pointless.”

 Steve had never let go of that burden, of thinking that his best friend had died because of him; he had never stopped thinking that he should have been faster, smarter, stronger. And after finding out that Bucky had survived, but had been turned into a dehumanized weapon, Steve had added another burden on the pile, because this would never have happened if Steve had been _better_ , if Steve hadn’t gone down and Bucky wouldn’t have had to pick up his shield, wouldn’t have been blown away, wouldn’t have been hanging off that train in the first place… Steve suddenly felt very small and very fragile; he brought his knees on his chest and hid his face in his arms, shook his head and willed himself not to start sobbing right then and there.

 “Steve.”

 Steve looked up to see Bucky leaning towards him with concern, his eyes soft and kind. He promptly buried his face in his arms again. This was all wrong, this should not be happening; it was Steve who should be supporting Bucky right now, not the other way round. He would not cry. He would not lash out. He was Captain fucking America, for God’s sake, he could show some backbone. He could. He _would_ have been able to show much more backbone if that wasn’t Bucky before him, _his_ Bucky, who had known him at his most vulnerable, all defenses down- and this was proving to be a major problem, at the moment - but still, face-hiding was much better than ugly sobbing.

 “Steve.”

 Steve looked up again to find Bucky’s hand hovering just above his shoulder, wanting to touch, but not touching. Bucky’s forehead was a few inches from his own, strands of hair falling over his friend’s eye.

 “Steve, can I -” Bucky swallowed nervously. “D’you mind if I… Can I hold your hand for a second?”

 Steve had never been much of a touchy-feely person, would never in his life ask for or admit he needed a hug, a caress, a hand on his own.  Now, he threw himself at Bucky, engulfing him in the biggest hug he’d ever given in his life, burying his face in Bucky’s right shoulder. After a second of bewilderment, he felt Bucky’s hands, one soft and one smooth, wrap around his back. He stifled a sob, but couldn’t stop the tears that wet Bucky’s shirt. Bucky squeezed Steve more tightly and nudged Steve’s head with the side of his own.

 After what felt simultaneously like hours and seconds, Steve heaved a sigh. He blinked away the wetness from his eyes and pulled back to wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

 Bucky kept a firm hand on his shoulder as he said, calmly, gently, “Steve, pal, you’ve got to stop doing this to yourself. You don’t have to save everyone, and you _can’t_ save everyone. Okay?”

 To Steve’s sniffle, he added, “Most of us have to save ourselves.”

 “Is that what you’ve been doing?” Steve asked, his voice rough. “Saving yourself?”

 He was upset. He couldn’t help it; he was pissed off at being left out from Bucky’s quest at saving himself all on his own. Hell, a postcard would have been enough: ‘Hey, I’m here, I’m alive, cold kisses from snowy Finland,’ or something.

 Bucky kept a hand on Steve’s wrist, but recoiled. “I-I tried,” he said, his face open and honest. “I’m trying.”

 “How’s that working for you?” Steve asked.

 He knew it came out harsh, and he didn’t care. He hurt; his insides were in knots. Bucky was being unfair, selfish – even though Steve knew Bucky was most likely being self _less._ It didn’t matter.

 Bucky let go of Steve’s wrist and pulled back. “I- it’s. It’s been a slow progress.”

 “Why didn’t you come to me?” Steve asked tiredly.

 Bucky shifted into a kneeling stance, his movements slow and deliberate. Steve stared at him, waiting.

 “Come to you,” Bucky repeated flatly.

 “Yes, Buck, I could have helped,” he snapped.

 Bucky’s eyes flashed with anger. “Steve, you should be scared of me” – he ignored Steve’s indignant cry – “You should be disgusted with the things I’ve done!”

 “Bucky, stop!” Steve exclaimed furiously.

 Bucky didn’t. “I can’t even look you in the eye- look _anyone_ in the eye, much less you, the fucking epitome of heroism, without cowering back in shame!” He stared at Steve with a steely gaze. Then he ran a hand over his hair, and his shoulders slouched, as if that statement had taken what strength he had left.

 “Bucky,” Steve said, fingers digging in his palms and voice trembling, “ _you_ didn’t do any of it, they _made you_ -”

 “ _But I did it!_ ” Bucky shouted, his voice hard. “I _did_ it, Steve, _me_ , and I have _to live with it_. Of all the people I killed, their families? They will be looking _at me_ for answers, they won’t be blaming _Hydra_ -”

 “They _should_ be blaming Hydra!” Steve retorted.

 “In your world of ideals, yeah, maybe,” Bucky said tiredly. “But it’s not that simple. You don’t know. You’ve no idea what I’ve done.”

 “Oh, trust me, I know plenty,” Steve said before he could stop himself.

 “Steve, you don’t know,” Bucky insisted, his mouth pinched into a thin line.

 “I know, I saw, I experienced, I survived,” Steve said harshly.

 He heard himself, and he shivered at how callous he sounded.

 Bucky tensed.

 “You don’t-” he tried, but Steve couldn’t stop himself from throwing in an, “I do!”

 “ _No, you fucking don’t_!” Bucky snapped angrily. “You think what you saw, what you _read_ , makes you an _expert_? You think _you get what it’s like_?! You have no idea, Steve, it’s” – he shook his head, holding back – “Never mind.”

 “What?” Steve asked, desperate to know more.

 “It doesn’t matter” – Bucky looked away stubbornly – “You don’t need to know.”

 “No, I really do,” Steve objected.

 “No, you really _don’t_ ,” Bucky retorted. He rubbed his face impatiently, groaning quietly.

 Steve narrowed his eyes speculatively. “Who are you protecting?” he asked. “Me or yourself? ‘Cause if it’s me, I know most of it already-”

 “Both, Steve, I’m trying to protect _both_ of us!” Bucky exclaimed. “It’s not always _all_ about you!”

 He ran a trembling hand over his hair; Steve felt as if he’d been slapped.

 “You think I can deal with this?!” Bucky said, exasperated. “I can barely _live_ with myself, I can barely live in my own mind, in my own body! Every day, every fucking day I have memories or nightmares of everything I did- and don’t you _dare_ say it wasn’t _me_. It was _my_ hands, and _my_ eyes, and I see them _all-_ _I killed Howard Stark,_ ” he shouted spitefully. “I killed _Howard_.”

 “I know,” Steve muttered weakly. “But it wasn’t your choice,” he added mulishly.

 “He _saw me_ ,” Bucky rasped wildly. He sniffled, wiping his eyes. “He _recognized me_ ” – he shook his head, letting out a hysterical laugh – “I might not have had a choice, but it was _me_! The terror on his face, on everyone’s faces? The anger, the hate, everything was- _is_ always for _me_. _I_ killed them. _I_ have to live with that. Not you, not anyone else.”

 Steve bowed his head, his heart fluttering weakly, irregularly in his chest. He had messed up; he had managed to mess up the _one_ thing he _had_ to get right.

 Bucky was still talking, face pale, hair plastered on the sides of his forehead as he slammed his hand on the floor.

 “ _I_ have to live with remembering, _forever_ ,” he shouted. “ _I_ have to live with knowing how I was used, how I was _tortured_ before they decided to make me their assassin. And I _remember_ losing every last dignity I had, the screaming and the crying and how I wished it’d all end, because this time _no one_ would come for me!”

 Steve was finding it difficult to swallow. This was a fact and Bucky had stated it as such - he hadn’t expected Steve to save him, didn’t blame him, Steve could believe as much - but how could Steve not blame himself?

  “I had _no hope_ ,” Bucky went on relentlessly, his face contorted with anger and misery.

 Steve was hoping he would just stop.

 “Do you have _any_ idea what that feels like?” Bucky clenched his fists. “Knowing that you’re going to be tortured in every way possible until the day you die? Except that I _didn’t_ die, and now I have to live with knowing how it felt to have every piece of myself wiped out from existence,” he spat bitterly, straightening up a little. “How it felt when something came back, the confusion, the fear, how they wiped me again, how they punished me every time I wouldn’t follow their orders. Once, they wiped me because I smiled at a new doctor.”

 “ _I_ _smiled,_ ” Bucky repeated, slamming a fist on his thigh as he enunciated each word. “They thought it showed too much free will. And it _hurt_. And I remember _all of it_. Even when I try not to, I _dream_ of it.”

 His eyes were full of agitation, wrath, loss. Steve had to turn away.

 “So don’t you _dare_ try to tell me you know what it’s like - don’t you _dare_ try to tell me that just because you read” – he stifled a sob –  “It _fucking hurt_ , it still does, and it will _never_ be over and- do you have _any_ idea, _Steve_ , what _that_ is like? ‘Cause _until you_ _do_ -”

 Bucky gasped, horrified at his own words. He opened his mouth to say something, failed to come up with anything. His breaths were coming out in short pants.

 “I’m so sorry,” he said in a terrified whisper. “I’m so sorry, Steve, I didn’t mean-”

 Steve laughed, then, a soundless, grievous, gasping kind of laugh, as he pressed the heels of his hands on his red-rimmed eyes. _Bucky_ was sorry. For fuck’s sake.

 “ _You’re_ sorry,” he said thickly.

 “I didn’t mean that, I’d never” – Bucky shook his head, his face the very image of regret. “If anyone dared to do this to you–”He rubbed his face; he looked miserable. “I’m sorry.”

 Steve leaned back, pressing his mouth with the back of his hand to stop himself from crying or screaming. He felt weak. He was pretty sure the room was spinning. He was pretty sure if he’d let himself, he’d throw up or faint. He felt - no, he _knew_ he had just destroyed the one thing he’d been trying so hard to salvage. He did not trust himself to speak. His silence made Bucky fidgety and anxious; Steve hated himself for making things even worse, even now that he knew how blind-sided he’d been.

 Prolonging the silence would be near insufferable for Bucky, so Steve forced himself to say, “I… I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

 His voice came out hoarse and quiet.

 Bucky drew in a breath and widened his eyes, clearly not expecting this.

 “I don’t…” Steve shrugged helplessly. “There’s no excuse. I was just trying to make you understand that- that the people who know what happened don’t blame you and that you shouldn’t blame yourself either. I… I couldn’t stand the thought of you being here, alive, when I thought you were dead - I couldn’t stand leaving you alone to deal with - with what I _thought_ you were dealing. But you’re right. I’ve read the files, I’ve guessed the rest, but I didn’t- I can’t know what you know. I haven’t lived what you’ve lived. And saying that I do was…” He shook his head, then let it fall against the coffee table. “Terrible. Disrespectful. Disrespectful to everything you’re going through. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to day, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’ve been caught up in my own head.”

 “It’s a big head,” Bucky said in a small voice.

 “I didn’t think,” Steve said quietly. “I didn’t stop to consider- anything.”

 Bucky stayed silent, biting his lower lip, gazing at Steve.

 After a while, Steve couldn’t take the silence.

 “Can you please say something?” he said breathlessly.

 “I’m just thinking,” Bucky said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit you’ve been wrong before. Not in what I remember.”

 Steve let out a weak chuckle and sighed deeply. “I don’t know if this means anything to you, but you’re the bravest person I’ve ever known,” he said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

 Bucky scoffed. “I’ll have that written on my grave.” He winced at his words. “Sorry.”

 “No, don’t be,” Steve said, waving his hand dismissively.

 “No, you’re trying to be nice and I-”

 “I’m not trying to be _nice_ , Buck, I’m being _honest_ ,” Steve said tiredly. “Cross my heart and all that.”

 Bucky ran his hand over the carpet contemplatively. “Some days I just want to crawl into a cave and never come out again,” he said. “Other days, I want to track down Hydra and burn it, every last piece of it, make them pay and make sure they never get to do this to anyone else. There’s the other days, that I want to fight the good fight, make amends for everything I’ve done through everything I’ll do, every good thing I can do, everyone I can save. And some other days I want none of it, I just want to- to retire” – he scoffed – “Have a house. Get a dog. Grow vegetables. Whatever, just live.”

 “In Finland?” Steve suggested with a faint smile.

 Bucky shrugged noncommittally. “Half the days I don’t know what to do with myself, I’m just trying to stick together the fragmented pieces and fit them to who I am now.” He shook his head, his eyes glistening. “But I’m trying.”

 “What’s it like?” Steve asked. “When the memories come back?”

 Bucky exhaled a snort. “Funny you should ask,” he said. “As if we haven’t suffered enough for one night.”

 “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” Steve said preemptively.

 Bucky shrugged. He seemed to ponder his answer.

 “The first few days were the worst, I guess,” he said eventually. “I thought I’d die. I thought I was going insane, too; I kept getting these flashes of you when you were small, and then suddenly you were big, and I didn’t have any context, no hint to connect them - I thought that was it, that I had snapped.”

 He paused and looked at Steve, as if weighing whether he should continue. Then he shifted closer, his knee touching Steve’s leg. Steve could feel the warmth emanating off his body.

 “My head hurt a lot. The first few days I just remembered things and cried until I threw up, on repeat.”

 Steve felt like hell; it must have showed, because Bucky rested his hand on Steve’s leg comfortingly.

 But he didn’t stop.

 “After that, I tried to- to rebuild some kind of life. It wasn’t easy. Obviously,” he commented drily. “Some memories came like echoes, or like stories, and that’s okay, that’s like company. Some others were bad. I’d collapse in the middle of the street, I couldn’t even move, people were worrying and asking questions. And every time that I thought I’d die of the pain and the feelings and the horror and the guilt, that I’d die right then and there.” He pressed his lips. “I didn’t.”

 Steve suppressed a sigh of relief. He wiped a lock of hair out of Bucky’s eyes with a trembling, clammy hand and said, firmly, “Good.”

 Bucky shrugged. “That’s better now, at least. Less frequent. I can’t fix myself to be _that_ Bucky, the one you remember, the one who was- when _I_ was a better person, but I can fix myself enough to be _a_ person, a person I can _live_ with, and when it comes down to it, that’s what I’m trying to do. And I’ll do it. Some days it’s hard. But I can do it.”

  “I know you can,” Steve said, drained. “I’m just- what I’ve been trying –and failing, spectacularly-  to say is that you don’t have to do it alone. You know. With you till the end of the line and all that.”

 “Don’t say that,” Bucky breathed, shaking his head wearily. “I’m not even safe in my own head, much less safe for anyone else to be around me.”

 Steve felt a wave of grief go through his body. He swallowed it down, or at least he tried; maybe it showed on his face. He was too exhausted for pretending.

 “So that’s it, then?” he croaked. “That’s what you need? I mean, I’ll respect it, whatever it is,” he hurried to say before shoving his foot in his mouth again. “I’ve been the asshole here, not you.” He took a deep breath and sat straighter. “You want to say goodbye?”

 Bucky rolled his eyes. “Steve, don’t be an idiot, you’re _home_ to me,” he said matter-of-factly, gripping Steve’s hand. “That’s never what I want.”

 Steve didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, but he cherished the words all the same; the warm hand over his sweaty one, Bucky’s familiar smell, the comfort of their proximity.

 “But it’s not always about wants,” Bucky reasoned, and Steve’s heart fell again.

 “It’s not easy living with _myself_ , let alone with others,” Bucky went on. “Hydra’s looking for me; I constantly have to watch my back, I can’t put anyone else in that kind of danger. And I constantly have to keep _myself_ in check” – he took a deep, shaky breath and looked at Steve almost pleadingly – “It’s shit, Stevie, it’s so much shit, I… I rarely sleep through the night, I wake up thrashing and screaming. And everything triggers a memory, and when it’s bad, I completely break down. Sometimes little things drive me crazy, loud noises, sudden noises, and sometimes just the presence of people breathing in the same space with me makes me paranoid; it’s shit and I hate it, but it is what it is, and I…” He shrugged helplessly. “I wouldn’t do that to you, I just- I couldn’t, I can’t put that on you.”

 “But you always had my back,” Steve said faintly.

 Bucky smiled a small smile at that. “Well, I _tried_. It wasn’t easy, you were the angriest of the Chihuahuas.”

 Steve chuckled bitterly. “God,” he muttered, lowering his head.

 “When they had me, after the fall, I heard them say you died and I lost it” – Bucky let out a mirthless chortle – “’Cause I thought, ‘the fuck, Steve. You didn’t die from asthma, pneumonia, rheumatic fever, the fights, and you died as Captain America?’”

 “Well, to be fair, I had you to see me through all that,” Steve said.

 “Ain’t I a regular Mother Teresa,” Bucky drawled half-heartedly.

 Steve rubbed his eyes vigorously, letting out a small groan. He raised his eyes to look at Bucky.

 “That’s what I’m saying though, Buck,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what you’d do for me, if things were different. You never left me, fights and illnesses and meltdowns and all. You’ve done exactly what you’re trying not to put on me.”

 Bucky huffed defensively. He pulled Steve’s hand closer and rubbed small circles on his knuckles.

 Steve took a deep breath, treading softly and hoping to God he was not making a mistake again. “You could come to the Avengers tower.”

 Bucky snorted derisively, but Steve ignored it.

 “It’s the safest place for everyone; you included. Nothing can get in there. Tony Stark- Howard’s son-”

 “I know who Tony Stark is-”

 “He designed it and he’s, well, he’s a genius. And,” Steve pressed on, “if anyone can find a way to remove those triggers off your head, that’s Stark.”

 “Except from the part where I killed his parents,” Bucky said in that familiar you’re-an-idiot-Rogers tone.

 “He knows,” Steve said gently.

 Bucky’s horrified expression was slowly reemerging, so Steve hurried on.

 “Yes, okay, you’re not his favorite person in the world, but he- he gets it now. It was a little hard at first, but he gets it now. Clint and Natasha _made_ him get it, really, it was a series of painful pranks that weren’t really- never mind.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Point is. Safe place.”

 Bucky looked torn as he mulled the idea, his eyes roaming around the room to rest at the wall. He gnawed on his lip, tapped Steve’s knuckles. He breathed in and out, in and out, and Steve waited. And waited.

 When he couldn’t take it anymore, he added in a reasonable voice, “And if they _do_ get to you, a tower full of Avengers is probably your best bet. Before you hurt anyone or yourself.” He rubbed his face wearily. “We’re all dangerous, Buck. We all need to be kept in check. Thing is, the only people who can keep us in check is people like us. And I miss you.”

 Bucky raised his head, appraising Steve with gentle, saddened eyes.

 Steve swallowed hard, feeling unpleasantly like a fresh wound – raw, open, and vulnerable. “I don’t like it that I’m not with you. Because you’re my home too, and because it’s always been that way, us, together, and I never let that go. But that’s selfish. It’s purely selfish. All I’m asking is that you consider it. And then, whatever you decide, well” – he put his palms up in surrender - “So be it.” He let out a feeble laugh. “Well, I’m done,” he said. To Bucky’s questioning look, he explained, “I’ve- I’ve literally experienced every emotion possible tonight. I’m done.”

 “D’you want something to eat?” Bucky suggested, brightening up. “Or drink? I’ve got some stuff in the fridge- it’s not much, but hey, we’ve got plenty choices in this century.”

 Steve looked up at him and maybe that sudden pang of sadness that he felt at the possibility of Bucky not following him to the tower showed on his face, because Bucky hurriedly added, “Unless you want to leave, I-”

 “Bucky, no- I’m- no”- he waved his hand dismissively - “I’m here for as long as you’ll stand me, seriously. If you still don’t get that I don’t wanna leave you, then I’ve been doing something very, very wrong.”

 Bucky snorted. “Well, if it’s so, I’ll graciously grant you the couch. Or we can both sleep on the floor.”

 Bucky had jumped to the conclusion that Steve would spend the night. Steve basked in that conclusion.

 “Bucky, hey,” he said as Bucky sprang up off the floor, reaching out to touch his hand.

 Bucky touched his fingertips on Steve’s and looked at him questioningly.

 “You’ll think of it? Of coming with me?”

 “Yeah, Steve, yes,” Bucky said earnestly, pressing the tips of Steve’s fingers. “I’ll think of it.” His eyes lingered a moment too long on Steve’s; he cleared his throat. “Right. Right, for now we have tonight for sure, so.”

 He took a step toward the kitchen, but Steve tugged at his hand, holding him back.

 “Hey,” he called softly. “This isn’t goodbye.”

 Bucky blew out his cheeks in surprised amusement. “With us? It never is, Steve, come on. Don’t be so dramatic.” He squeezed Steve’s fingers in reassurance. “You’re not getting rid of me.” He seemed to reconsider, then, and kneeled in front of Steve in one fluid movement. “The real tragedy here is,” he said slowly, seriously, “that _I_ don’t seem able to get rid of _you_. And _I_ am the smart one. Punk.” He grinned, a light-hearted, open grin, bopped his forehead on Steve’s and stood up.

  “Food,” he said, walking to the kitchen.

  _It’s never goodbye_ , Steve thought, in Bucky’s voice; and warily, tentatively, he let himself lean back and dare to hope.   

 

 


End file.
